


Reaper Man

by barghest



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ???? I guess, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Death, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, flowery writing, pretty much anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7930999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Morrison is buried with pomp and ceremony, the American flag draped over his empty coffin, posthumous medals following soft dirt into his grave. Gabriel Reyes is not.<br/>(A meditation on unlife after death.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaper Man

**Author's Note:**

> me: im gonna finish the next installment of hoisting the colours before i do any other fic!  
> me: hey twitter give me suggestions on what to procrastinate with
> 
> my boy andy on twit (@twypoppunk) asked for 'reyes angst'. i hope this covers it lmao

Jack Morrison escapes the wreckage of Overwatch's Swiss Headquarters with his life barely intact, vision blurry and ribs broken from the impact. Gabriel Reyes does not. Jack comes across a tactical visor, that allows him to see well enough to crawl his way to relative safety, to curl up in a ball and let sleep heal the rawest of his wounds. Gabriel does not. Jack struggles to his feet and stumbles into hiding, damaged but alive, body held together with bone and sinew and flesh. Gabriel does not.

Jack Morrison is buried with pomp and ceremony, the American flag draped over his empty coffin, posthumous medals following soft dirt into his grave. Gabriel Reyes is not.

\--

Heroes never die - but Gabriel does not think he's a hero, and he has certainly died. He is trapped in a version of the inferno that plays the same tune over and over on his skin as it regrows, peels away and grows back again. The fires of Hell have been burning within him for what feels like an eternity, with no respite except that if he stops trying to move, the pain in his limbs lessens a little. His fingertips are miles out of reach, the cold surface of the operating table he lies upon burning to the touch. It is ice, but it provides no relief.

An angel has come to rescue him, to carry him away to the other side - but has he really earned himself an angel? He does not believe so. His passing did not come nobly or in battle, so the presence is confusing, even as she cools the fire in his chest with her touch. She speaks in muffled tongues that he can't decipher, hovering above him with soft, apologetic eyes. A halo rings her head, and he wonders, aren't angels supposed to be horrifying? Shouldn't he be in fear? He is afraid, but it stems from the pains stretching over him like a new skin, not the being above him.

She is gentle, he is sure, but his chest still heaves with the urge to cry out with every touch, every light prod, ever methodical flick of her hands over his body. Her tears do nothing to cool him as they hit his throat - do they heal? He remembers faintly reading somewhere that phoenix tears heal, but he doesn’t know if the same applies to angels. His heart only slows as her tears roll over his collar bones, chest shuddering with the difficulty of every breath. Maybe she is easing him along his last journey, taking the last of the air from his lungs before he can go.

She is not so merciful. Gabriel does not feel himself ascending. The fire within him becomes a blaze that threatens to engulf him, but he cannot cry out. If he could open his mouth, maybe it could be expelled? But his lips - if they still exist - refuse to open. His own flesh pulls tight around him like a too small coffin. He is to be entombed here, in a mausoleum of Overwatch's ruins and his own hubris. His eyes are too dry and unseeing to tearfully mourn.

\--

He is smoke. He is ash, borne along on a summer wind with no place to rest. He is a spectre composed of fog with no more use for the name Gabriel than an owl may have for sunlight. In the shadows, he is nothing more than a whisper. In the light, he is too insubstantial to be seen.

He floats for days, weeks, month without pooling into a form than can wear clothes and walk like a man. Sometimes, he dreams of the angel - of the way her wings blinded him as he tried to gaze upon her. He dreams of her hands holding what remains of his face and her mouth moving wildly, trying to coax forward words. In his dreams, she stings him with every touch, and he wonders, maybe she was not helping him at all? Maybe she was punishing him, for his sins? In those moments, he wakes howling, the stars in the night sky reverberating with his cries.

He tries on the name Gabriel again, but recoils, as if burnt by its sound on his flesh. It sits too heavy on him like a title he has yet to earn, so he slinks back to the shadows, incomplete and wanting. He remembers another name - Jack - and tries to paste himself around it, a collage of paper clippings and war cries masquerading as a person. He tries to wear the cloak of Jack, whoever Jack was - even as it hangs around his neck like a stone weight. It aches him to bear that name, so he casts it off as well, clutching at what remains of his chest to rid himself of the shooting pains that accompany the single syllable. It burns him, and he is angry.

The anger consumes him and he becomes a shadow again, a black cloud that fills the forest he shelters in and chars the wood he touches until it is a blaze. Branches snap above him and crumble as they hit the charred leaf litter on the ground, the scent of burning wood fills the air around him, filling his insides as he tries to inhale. The trees whistle and crack and wail as they burn, embers floating away on the breeze like seeds. 

He hopes it will extinguish him, but it does nothing, it does not so much as singe him. The rains come and douse the woods until he's alone again, in the smouldering quiet. He is untouched. 

\--

He congeals outside a small town, piecing together the shreds of memory he has held onto until the anger pools inside him, hot in the pit of his stomach. It is an acid that eats away at his insides, that threatens to dissolve him again whenever he has a hold on corporeality. It hurts so much he moans and howls and wails - loud enough that the town quivers in their beds, huddled away from the monster than seems to stalk their borders. He throws back his head to shriek into the night, wrenching parts of himself off with his hands, only for them to reform again a moment later.

He steals a black cloak and gathers it around himself, letting the folds of the fabric caress him. It eases him to wear clothing again, to make himself feel more human again. Next he pulls on gloves, his fingers solidifying inside them into bones and flesh and dark fingernails. Boots that he has to force himself into, but the claustrophobia of his feet makes him cry out in relief - a human emotion, at last. He craves to feel it again, so he takes them off and puts them back on again, off and on all afternoon until the sensation dulls inside his heels.

He dreams of the angel, awaking in agony at the memory of Heaven's gates closing before him.

\--

They call him a ghost - a ghoul - a monster. He walks among them when he hungers, driven by the desire to feed upon those around him that grows insatiable on the nights he tries to think about the name Jack. It burns up his throat and only sucking out the life of beings that call themselves human seems to sooth the pain. It's dull in his neck now, throbbing gently as he considers his moves.

He remembers a name. He remembers that it used to be tied to him, but at every opportunity he tries to cut the string that binds them together. When he sets foot amongst people, he reaps with every stride. He is a harvestman, with a shotgun scythe in his hands that turns to ash whenever it touches the ground. Through the fields, he walks, his gait even and practiced as he makes his way through his crops, devouring those in his wake. 

 

It is this that leads him to the graves of Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes, buried side by side. The ground beneath his feet feels empty and cold, two coffins filled with dirt and personal belonging in the absence of corpses to place inside. For the first time, the anger dwelling within him is icy and his howl of anguish echoes through the graveyard, tombstones rattling around him. There is no comfort knowing that he doesn't walk the afterlife alone and flame in his chest only burns brighter.

**Author's Note:**

> nb: i know owls arent repulsd by sunlight and they are largely crepuscular birds. however, it fit the metaphor best aight :V


End file.
